


Death at His Hands

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-01-14
Updated: 2006-01-14
Packaged: 2018-03-04 08:56:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3061778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How the Slytherin house ghost got his name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Death at His Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously written pre-DH!

_"How did he get covered in blood?" asked Seamus with great interest._

_"I've never asked," said Nearly Headless Nick delicately._

\---

"And what shall my son do now that he's left Hogwarts?"

He smiled at his father. "Why, be a Slytherin, of course."

\---

Mysteries and Magical Law went hand-in-hand in those days. Pursuing one meant dedication to the other, but that suited him fine. He had the secrets to life and knowledge and death at his fingertips, and he planned on using everything at his disposal to purify the wizarding world and keep it safe.

Prisoners were kept in stocks or in high towers reachable only by broom and locked in by secure passwords. This was fine for petty criminals and those that evaded the Ministry's tax, but for murderers, marauders, and traitors to the government, it wasn't enough. The news was not yet common, but some wizards had learnt to manipulate their bodies so that they might disappear from one place and reappear in another. Mysteries and Law Enforcement had been developing ways to suppress this new mutation of magic, but he knew that could take years. That was unacceptable.

He volunteered to be the executioner the day he completed his apprenticeship.

In the Muggle world, executioners covered their faces, keeping their identities anonymous and hiding them from a God that might see them as murderers. He needed no such anonymity, though, and looked down on Muggles that thought ridding the world of evil was reason enough to hide.

Instead, he lifted his head to the heavens and relished his position. There was no shame. The criminals were the dirty ones. His confidence led him to rise up the ranks of Mystery and Magical Law quickly, and he owed it all to his absolute confidence that he was right: He wasn't murdering; he was _cleansing_.

And he did so with the swift swing of his axe. Simple. Clean. Quick.

\---

"There have been a rash of uprisings on the moors," the Minister informed senior members of Mysteries and Magical Law. "The very worst kind of wizards, I assure you."

"Muggle lovers. Mudbloods. Over-zealous Gryffindors," he muttered under his breath, arms crossed over his chest. The Auror seated next to him nodded once, tersely.

"I've already sent guards to quell these riots," continued the Minister. "I trust that once the lead rabble-rousers are identified and taken prisoner, the problem will be completely solved?"

Everyone in the room was already looking at him.

"Of course it will, Minister," he said pleasantly.

\---

The crowd swelled to unheard of numbers the day of the rioters' executions. People cheered and parted as he glided through the crowd, axe held at his side, Ministry-standard robes perfectly in place.

"Look at 'im," said one crone to another. "Who does he think 'e 'is, in that poofy dress? A duke? A baron?"

"Yeh, 'e's the Bloody Baron, servant o't'Ministry," her friend answered. "Step on his hem, and his wet noodle'll get yeh 'round the throat!"

They cackled. He ignored them. The three leaders were brought in, two struggling and shouting as the guards held fast to them.

"The Ministry is a lie! They play with your lives! Isn't this farce proof enough?" one shouted over the din of the crowd. He was Silenced.

"Muggleborns are wizards!" yelled another, a witch. "We will die for our cause! Remember that!" She was Stupefied.

The third knelt down before him and stared at him with clear green eyes. "I am not afraid to die because I have done nothing wrong. What you are doing, that is wrong." The man lowered his head to the block.

His blade felt dull, and his hands shook. It took too many tries before their heads finally rolled, and his robes were covered in blood.

\---

To the Ministry's surprise and dismay, the riots against it did not stop with the first executions. Groups of wizards and witches, purebloods and half-bloods, even magical creatures, assembled and fought on the moor, in the valley, in the glen, and even in the fen. The executions continued, and he wondered if they weren't depleting the wizarding population to irreversible effect. Mysteries and Magical Law were having no luck stopping the so-called apparitions, either. He asked for audience with the Minister.

The Minister gestured to a seat at his council table. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Baron?"

"Baron,' he scoffed, sitting down. "I am not royalty. Wizarding royalty is an outdated institution, reflecting a time before our Ministry. It's offensive."

The Minister tapped his fingers against the heavy wood of the council table. "Come now. You're not just a baron, but a _bloody_ one. The people admire your efficiency, your ruthlessness. Your cruelty. No offense is meant."

His cruelty. He suppressed a shudder, resisted staring at his hands. He couldn't bring himself to say what he ought.

"I believe in the Ministry," the Baron said finally.

The Minister smiled, a flash of white teeth between thin lips. "See that you always do."

\---

Sir Nicholas de Mimsy-Porpington came from actual, archaic wizarding royalty. His blood was as pure as the Blacks, and the line could probably be traced back to Godric Gryffindor himself. That he'd be put to death was as ridiculous as the Baron's own head being put on the block; his crying and begging to be kept alive was embarrassing; his refusal to apologise for leading a revolt was a shock.

de Mimsy-Porpington stared at the Baron as he was forced to his knees. His cheeks were tear-streaked, his lip bitten through. "I have never been so afraid in all my life," he said. Did this man think the Baron was his confessor? "I don't want to know what happens to me beyond this mortal coil. Please make it quick, good sir."

After forty whacks with a blunt axe, Sir Nicholas finally stopped breathing, though his head stayed attached by a single thread of sinew. The Bloody Baron threw up on the crowd.

\---

He tendered his resignation as the Ministry's executioner the next day, and tried to ignore the scores of young wizards willing to take his place. There was no glory in death, but he could not disillusion the so-called Dastardly Duke, nor the alleged Prince of Pain. It disgusted him.

He used the resources of Mystery, and his affinity with death gave him a unique outlook. He saw it: Ending life was possible as long as a wizard really meant it. The Killing Curse would finally rid the wizarding world -- him -- of the axe.

"Death is now concentrated in two words? Anyone can do that," murmured the Head of Mysteries and Magical Law, once he finally showed off his discovery. "The need for executioner is eradicated, and the Bloody Baron has done it again. You wear your name well, sir."

"No, you misunderstand," he said. "It's merely a more humane option, not a reason for more death!"

"There is no misunderstanding. The Minister thanks you for your work, but your loyalty is in question." The Head raised his wand. "I am completely loyal to the Ministry."

The Baron looked skyward. _No_ , he thought, even as the green light rushed toward him, as it whispered secrets to him. _I am not yet ready. I do not want to know what happens._ **I am afraid!**

\---

When he woke, he wore his best robes and was covered in the blood that haunted his life, but had nothing to do with his death. He was at Hogwarts. He was a ghost. He knew, somehow, that he had asked for this.

"Haven't seen you in the Great Hall," said a fat ghost, wearing the garb of a friar. "Who are you?"

He looked at his chest, at his hands, and felt a wet droplet run from his temple to chin. "I...I am the Bloody Baron," he told the Friar. "Call me the Bloody Baron."

A poltergeist dressed in orange and purple whipped around the Baron, and stuck out his tongue. He flung a chicken bone at the Baron's head and insinuated something terrible about the Baron's mother.

"Stop," he croaked, finally looking away from silvery blood slipping across his fingers. He stared straight at the poltergeist and did not blink. Silver blood pooled on the floor around him.

The poltergeist sailed back five feet. "Yes, Mr. Bloody Baron, sir! Never again, sir!"

At the Gryffindor table, another ghost gave him a sad, knowing smile and gripped the top of his plumed hat. The Baron's eyes widened with recognition.

"My head's off to you. Welcome back to Hogwarts. We were in need of a Slytherin ghost."


End file.
